Coming Home
by twilightslittleangel
Summary: John Watson has a voice in his head telling him to go back to Baker Street.


**Oh don't mind me, I'm just writing depressing Sherlock fanfic.**

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There was something inside of me that wanted me to go back to the place where this all started. That small voice in my head that pretended to know what it was doing, that convinced me of the most awful truths, wanted me to go back to the flat I had called home. I'd still call it home if it didn't harbor such damaging memories. It was the capsule that held them all, because I couldn't bear to look back and see them in my mind. To journal them made me hurt, but since my therapist had suggested I do that, I did it. Wrote it all on a word document, because that blog was no longer in use. I had written my last post for it, and there was nothing more to be done with it. I couldn't bring myself to delete the entire blog itself, because someday I would want to reread what I had written about my past life.

My therapist also suggested trying to pick it all up and carry on like I had been before. So I did. I got a job at a hospital, and focused on my work. I could save a life or two, make myself feel a little better. Make a positive impact. Never flirted with the pretty nurses, never went out for rounds of golf or drinks or whatever those kids did now. Instead I went back to the flat that I had, one a good distance away from home, where I was determined to spend the rest of my days. Until the building eventually collapsed, leaving me trapped inside and possibly dead. These suicidal tendencies were new to me, but they weren't anything too serious. My therapist said so. As long as I called her before I did anything stupid, I would be okay.

Well, today was one of those days where I had to call her. That voice had taken over my head, and so I wanted to go back to my home. It had worn away at any self preserving senses that I had, and convinced me that going back would be good. That I had to. I called her at lunch and left not an hour after, telling the hospital that I'd be back soon enough. The tears in my eyes convinced the nurses to let me go and to get one of those younger fellows to cover for me. She told me that going back might help me get over it, to realize that everything was moving on without me, and that I needed to get on with it.

Outside, I stood on the corner for a moment to watch as that world spun on. Women clicked by in heels, cellphones held to their ear as they chatted away importantly. Men bustled with briefcases in hand, teenagers in gangs of two or three giggling over the latest news. Cars busily zoomed by, and the sun kept shining. All this clamor and commotion, but what for? I hailed a cab, anxious to be out of this disarray. As I waited for the car to pull to the curb, my phone buzzed in my pocket. Instinctively, I pulled it out to see who had sent me a message. No one sent me messages anymore, just the occasional phone call when I was needed at work.

_Baker Street. Come at once, if convenient. If inconvenient, come anyways. SH_

Strange. My phone must be broken if old messages were being sent again. I would have one of the younger kids at the hospital check it out and fix it later. Right now I had to go back to the old place. My phone even wanted me to. Maybe I would find something there, a note maybe, telling me that everything would be okay and that I should just give all his stuff to a school for gifted youngsters, then carry on.

I opened the door with my key, and walked down the dusty hall. The floorboards creaked, and the dust danced in the sunlight that peeked through the curtains. White sheets were on the chairs in the living room, all the old newspapers stacked underneath the coffee table. The bookshelf remained untouched, even if it did look like there was little to no dust on it. In the kitchen, the table had remained unclothed, with the two mismatched chairs pushed in. I pulled one out and sat in it, just observing the dust and recalling all those old memories made in this kitchen.

Those were the days, when I would come home to find a pig hanging from the ceiling over a pot, knives lodged in it. When there were eyeballs draining in the sink and a vast collection of toes in a metal bowl in the microwave. That time when he made me supper, only for me to learn that the devilish man had laced it with a tranquilizing drug. I didn't know about that until the next morning, when I woke up tied to a chair in the bathtub. A laugh escaped my lips, the first laugh in such a long time. Maybe my therapist was right, that coming here was going to make things better. Eventually the sun succumbed to the oncoming darkness, making the entire place seem much more ghostly. Something inside, probably that voice that once wanted me to come here, was wanting to go away before something bad happened.

That voice needed to get it's shit together and pick a side.

Tuning it out, I just sat and listened to the absolute silence that was here. It was so peaceful, something so wonderful. If I went outside I'd be prey to the disorderly behavior of drunks and prostitutes that often wandered around late at night. I let myself close my eyes, to focus even more. Was that the soft rustle of fabric being dragged on the floor? Obviously, it was a draft. The light switch turning on the bathroom light was a freak accident of Mrs. Hudson, clearly because she just wasn't used to the breaker box yet and accidentally turned it on. The hardest part to explain was the violin that was being played. I knew that string instruments eventually lose their tune after a while, some quicker than others. So why was this violin, his violin, still in perfect tune and being played flawlessly?

I must be losing my mind. But to entertain the thought that my best friend was still alive, I submitted to my curious urge.

"Sherlock?" I asked into the near silence. The violin stopped, the air once again much more calm. The music still bounced around in my head. I could hear light footsteps coming closer, the drag of a bed sheet on the dusty floorboards.

"John." The calmest, deepest voice responded. Could it be? Was it possible? Inside, I was bursting with wonder. Opening my eyes, I turned to see who was behind me.

"Sherlock!"


End file.
